<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>i hate accidents (except when we went from friends to this) by nirav</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520971">i hate accidents (except when we went from friends to this)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirav/pseuds/nirav'>nirav</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, bees schnees week 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:03:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520971</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirav/pseuds/nirav</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is, probably, an easily identifiable trail of connect-the-dot mistakes that Yang can follow, from the minute she signed the apartment lease six months ago to the last swallow of whiskey an hour ago that ended up with her here, sandwiched into this exact position where she should absolutely not be.  She can probably highlight every exact wrong turn she made and all the ways in which it should have all gone better; she is, after all, technically brilliant, as her professors keep rudely reminding her, and should be doing more with it.</p><p>And yet.  And <i>yet</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blake Belladonna/Weiss Schnee/Yang Xiao Long</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>293</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i hate accidents (except when we went from friends to this)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>bees schnees week day 6: college/grad school au</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is, probably, an easily identifiable trail of connect-the-dot mistakes that Yang can follow, from the minute she signed the apartment lease six months ago to the last swallow of whiskey six minutes ago that ended up with her here, sandwiched into this exact position where she should absolutely not be.  She can probably highlight every exact wrong turn she made and all the ways in which it should have all gone better; she is, after all, technically brilliant, as her professors keep rudely reminding her, and should be doing more with it.</p><p>And yet.  And <em> yet </em>.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It starts with Ruby, because everything starts and ends with Ruby.  Genius, wondrous Ruby, a revelation on two legs, the reason Yang does anything, two years younger but always right at her side; Ruby who skipped a grade and Yang who didn’t argue when she wanted to finish undergrad a year early so they could start their graduate program together.  Ruby who brought Weiss-- brilliant, prickly, abnormally soft after just the tiniest bit of prodding Weiss-- into their life and who, not two weeks after they’d all finished undergrad, came bounding back into one of the Schnee’s Boston houses they’d been staying in at Weiss’s insistence until they found an apartment in Cambridge with Weiss in disgruntled tow and announced she’d found an apartment for all of them.</p><p>The apartment, unfortunately, is terrible, and Yang slots a glance over at Weiss because her eye is twitching in that way she does when she’s feeling rich and pretentious and hates herself for it.</p><p>“Ruby,” Yang says, hands on her hips.  “We can’t live here.  It’s got roaches.”  She kicks at the dirty carpet points helpfully to where a tiny roach scampers out of shadows and is rewarded with Weiss shrieking and leaping into her arms.  “Weiss will die and then <em> Whitley </em> will have to save the Schnee legacy.”</p><p>“We are <em> not </em> living here,” Weiss says imperiously, or at least as imperiously as she can while cradled in Yang’s arms, and Yang nods gravely, solemnly, absolutely not laughing at her at all or the way Ruby’s sulking.  “We’ll find something else we can afford, Rubes, I promise.”</p><p>It starts with Ruby’s hangdog face, because she’s right that, technically, a shithole with roaches <em> is </em> the only thing they can afford, because their parents do their best but a teacher and a mechanic can only offer so much, and their stipends are paltry, their financial aid a joke.  Yang has a job at the university gym lined up and another at a bar off campus, Ruby one at the library, but there’s only so much they can do.  Cambridge is expensive, and they have their limits.  It starts with Ruby’s uncertainty, and Yang’s guilt, and within a day she pulls Weiss aside and shelves her pride and signs a lease with her for a three bedroom in a doorman building and they swear to never tell Ruby how Weiss’s trust will cover two thirds of the cost, and Yang and Ruby will split the remainder.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Next was assuming Ruby would accept that the apartment was just <em> cheap </em>, because it has granite countertops and a balcony and also because her portion of the rent amounts to something that would be low even for the roach hotel she’d shown them.  She’s smart, smarter than she has any right to be, which Yang knows, because they’re both up to their eyeballs in the same graduate program, the best in the country, so of course she’s smart.  She fumbles and flusters and looks desperately to Weiss for help, because Weiss was always a fast thinker-- she’s the one who practically broke the LSAT, for God’s sake-- and Weiss, not even looking up from her textbook, throws Yang a lifeline in the form of a verbal right hook.</p><p>“Yang got a third job,” she says drolly.  She flips to the next page and slaps a post-it onto the edge of the page, neatly inking an annotation in, never looking over to where Yang’s gone from floundering to glaring in the span of a millisecond.</p><p>“You did?” Ruby blinks over at her, and Yang <em> could </em> just tell her the truth, but Ruby’s always hated to be cared for, to be worried about, but money is tight enough as it is and would be so much worse if they were trying to live literally anywhere else <em> and </em> they would be four times as far from campus, likely with bedbugs.</p><p>“Yes,” Yang says, strangled.  “Totally.”</p><p>“Where?” Ruby’s suspicious, because of course she is, and Yang gurgles like a dying cat as she tries to find a lie.</p><p>“On campus,” Weiss says, still not looking up, wholly uninterested.  “My campus, not yours.  One of the professors needed a part time admin.”</p><p>“Oh,” Ruby says after a moment.  “Why didn’t you just--”</p><p>“Because she’s dumb,” Weiss says with a sigh, snapping her book shut.  “And thinks she’s <em> too cool </em> to admit she’s working at <em> Harvard </em>.  As if there’s something wrong with that.”</p><p>Yang stares at her, dumb as a post for a moment, until Weiss glares her into speaking.  “I mean, who wouldn’t be embarrassed,” she manages to say.  “It’s Harvard.  Who would be caught dead there?”</p><p>“Heathen,” Weiss says with a sniff.  She lifts off the couch and stalks off, slapping at the back of Yang’s head as she does.  “It’s your turn to cook, by the way.”</p><p>Later, when Ruby’s headed back to campus-- MIT, not Harvard-- because when Ruby’s decided to work no one can stop her, Yang leans her elbows on the counter and props her chin in her hands, watching as Weiss loads the dishwasher, having already been chased away when she tried to help.</p><p>“Thanks for the assist,” she says eventually.  </p><p>“One of the professors really is looking for an admin.”  Weiss doesn’t look up from the dishwasher, blindly accepting the plate Yang hands her.  “I can put your name in, if you need the money.”</p><p>She straightens up, scrubbing her palms absently on her sweatpants.  “I can also just cover--”</p><p>“Weiss, no,” Yang says firmly.  She rubs at her forehead, does the math in her head, calculates costs in her head.  “I-- if I can make the hours work, yeah, it’d be good.  We’re-- <em> okay </em>, but money’s tight.  But you don’t have to support us.”</p><p>“Yang,” Weiss says, careful, quiet.  Her hands curl half into fists at her sides and then release.  “It’s-- it’s not charity or anything like that.  The stipends you get are a joke for the hours you work.  There aren’t enough hours in the day for you to work three jobs on top of--”</p><p>“I can do it,” Yang says over her, and then winces because Weiss’s mouth snapped shut abruptly.  “I’m sorry.  I appreciate it, I really do.  But you’re already doing so much for us, okay?  I can cover the rest.”</p><p>She pushes up to stand straighter, stretches her arms towards the ceiling until her back cracks.  Weiss sighs and ignores her, turning her attention back to the dishwasher, and Yang waits patiently until she’s done and then grabs her by the shoulders, steering her back to the living room.</p><p>“Now that that’s settled,” she says cheerfully.  “I’m going to <em> destroy </em> you in Mario Kart.”</p><p>“I have to study,” Weiss says, token protest halfhearted even by her standards.  </p><p>“You,” Yang declares.  “Have literally already read every single textbook for every single class this semester <em> twice </em>, and I know that because you made me quiz you on them.  Twice.  Before classes started.  So get your ass on that couch, Schnee, or I’ll throw you over there myself.”</p><p>“I’d like to see you try,” Weiss mutters, knees already curling up towards her chest as she takes her usual spot in the corner of the couch and tucks her hair behind her ears.</p><p>“Don’t tempt me, babe.”  Yang sprawls across the couch, wiggling her feet into Weiss’s lap.  “And I swear to God, if you play as Bowser again, I <em> will </em> put your aeropress on top of the fridge.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It spirals from there.  The job at Harvard is, apparently, not with the law school; it’s with the English department, which is possibly worse, because lawyers are terrible but English students are, by just about every possible metric, Yang’s least favorite people.  The professor she works for teaches those freshman seminars with six hundred pretentious Ivy League brats and, as far as Yang can tell, mostly hired Yang with the intent to have her spend her six hours a week sorting his mail and organizing his calendar, since his TA presumably is too busy actually teaching the classes and grading papers and the professor himself is too busy doing literally anything else.</p><p>It’s easy, but it’s mind-numbingly boring.  The only upside to it, aside from the eleven bucks an hour it nets her while she spends most of her time technically working on her own schoolwork, is that if she times the bus right and powerwalks fast enough she can make it for coffee with Weiss on the edge of the law school campus after her Tuesday and Thursday shifts.</p><p>She’s counting the minutes to the end of one of those Tuesday shifts one day when an email pings from her boss, asking her to drop a book off at the office of another professor on her way out.  She raises an eyebrow, because she’s never had to actually speak to another human in the entire six weeks she’s worked here.  </p><p>The book in question is on Port’s desk and she’s only got ten minutes left, so she packs her laptop away and locks up early, because he has class on the other side of campus on Tuesdays anyways and won’t be back for hours; she can catch an earlier campus bus and avoid having to run to catch Weiss for once.  She hurries down the hall to the office and knocks on the open door, poking her head in.  The professor-- Oobleck; she’s seen him around, harried and angular-- isn’t in, but a head of dark hair at his desk tilts to one side.</p><p>“Office hours are over.”</p><p>Yang clears her throat, stepping half in. “Actually, I’m just--”</p><p>“Come back tomorrow at ten.”  The woman at the desk doesn’t turn around, shoulder hunched forward as she types rapidly, and Yang frowns.</p><p>“I’m just here for a delivery--”</p><p>The typing stops abruptly, and the woman turns around, and Yang nearly drops a hardback copy of the Iliad on her foot because, well, she’s very queer and can’t really be blamed when she’s surprised with dark hair and golden eyes and a frown that’s set just this side of condescending.  She’s always had a weakness for hot mean girls-- hell, she had the worst crush on Weiss when she first met her, before it settled into something warm and constant that Yang had learned to swallow and bury, something to never unsettle, because Weiss is her best friend now, her <em> sister’s </em> best friend, someone Yang can never risk losing-- and this particular hot girl is looking at her like she’d just spilled coffee all over her shirt.</p><p>“Port or Goodwitch?”</p><p>“Um,” Yang says, effectively.  She holds up the book, for lack of anything better to do.  “Port?”</p><p>“Leave the book.”  She gestures briskly towards the desk.  “Come by at 6:30 next Wednesday.  $150, cash only.  No Venmo, no PayPal, nothing like that.  Got it?”</p><p>“Um,” Yang says again, blinking rapidly, because that was not what she was expecting and she absolutely does not have $150 to spare, but also she’s fairly certain she would sell her right arm if the mean pretty lady told her to right now.  “Yes ma’am.”</p><p>“Good.”  She turns around and goes back to typing, and Yang stares at the back of her head, entirely poleaxed at whatever she just got herself into.  “And close the door when you leave!”</p><p>Yang nearly shuts her backpack in the door in her haste to do as she’s told.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Weiss says with a sigh, setting her coffee on the table and leaning on one elbow.  “What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>“What?” Yang say, absolutely not nearly spilling her own coffee on her shirt.  “What do you mean--”</p><p>“Yang,” Weiss says drily.  “Normally you will <em> not </em> shut up about, at any given time--” She sets to counting on her fingers, “--the idiots you have to TA, whatever engineering thing you’re working on that I do <em> not </em> understand but I’m sure is going to save the world, whatever engineering thing <em> Ruby </em> is working on that I don’t understand but we’re both sure is going to save the world, that obnoxious guy who works the front desk at the gym who’s always hitting on you, the obnoxious guy at the <em> bar </em> who’s always hitting on you, your advisor, Professor Port’s complete inability to be an actual professor, literally anything and everything to do with Harvard and all the ways you miss undergrad and also that MIT is vastly superior--”</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Yang mumbles.  She slumps back in her chair and drops her head back to stair at the sky, hands wrapped around her coffee.  “I-- something weird happened at work.”</p><p>“At Port’s office?” Weiss raises an eyebrow, and Yang grumbles, because Weiss raising an eyebrow can mean anything from an invitation to keep talking to a precursor to murder.</p><p>“Kind of.”  Yang drags a knuckle along the seam of her coffee cup, chews on the inside of her cheek, tries to sort out the best way to explain this without making herself sound like the complete and utter idiot she, in fact, is.  “Port asked me to drop a book off at another professor’s office on my way out, so I did.  He wasn’t there, but his TA was.” </p><p>Weiss is quiet, arms folded, in typical Weiss fact-gathering mode, the one that she’s been practicing since, presumably, she was four years old and decided that the best way to avenge her family’s good name from the way her father dragged it into the mud was through becoming a lawyer, for some godforsaken reason.  It’s supremely uncomfortable to be on the other side of, which Yang has known since the minute she met Weiss, and she shifts in her seat, as if that will help with feeling like she's about to admit to a murder she didn't commit.  </p><p>“She-- I think she thought I was there to-- um,”  Yang sucks on her teeth, lets out a loud breath.  “I think she writes papers for undergrads.  For money.”</p><p>Weiss blinks at her, slow and measured.  “Hm,” she says eventually, level and unconcerned.</p><p>“What, no blueblooded rage that I’d dare insinuate people at Harvard might <em> cheat</em>?” It’s a hundred percent not the point of the conversation, but then again, needling Weiss is always the point of every conversation, insofar as no one else is allowed to do it, so Yang’s willing to take a detour.</p><p>Weiss, instead of being affronted, scoffs and rolls her eyes.  “Harvard is a joke, Yang,” she says, frowning down into her empty coffee and leaning forward to steal Yang’s.  “The entire Ivy League isn’t <em> better</em>, it’s just more expensive.  I didn’t choose Harvard because it’s the best education, I chose it because it’s a networking goldmine.  It’s a means to an end, but not because it’s <em> better</em>.  It’s probably got more cheating in it than most places.”</p><p>Weiss, Yang sometimes forget, is full of surprises.  She covers it up by leaning forward to reclaim her coffee, but Weiss scoffs and holds it out of her reach.</p><p>“Anyways.”  Yang clears her throat.  “She was-- intimidating.  And didn’t really give me time to.  You know.  Clarify anything.  I think I committed myself to paying a hundred fifty for a paper on the Iliad next Wednesday.”</p><p>Weiss chokes on the coffee, and Yang smugly snatches it back while she covers her mouth.  </p><p>“You did <em> what</em>?”</p><p>“It was an accident!” Yang says defensively.  “She was-- the whole thing happened very fast!”</p><p>“Yang!” Weiss says, and for all the time Yang’s known her, and all the situations they’ve found themselves in, some of them truly unexpected-- there was at least one where they started the evening in a bar near Columbia and woke up on a <em> boat </em>off the Delaware coast-- she’s never seen Weiss look properly scandalized like she is now.  “You’re a TA yourself, you know how overworked she probably is!”</p><p>“Wait, that’s what you’re bothered by?” Yang says.  “That <em> she </em> might be getting taken advantage of?  What about me!  I can’t afford this!”</p><p>“You could just tell her not to write it!”  Weiss gestures sharply with one arm.  </p><p>“I tried!  She was mean!”</p><p>“Oh, she was <em> mean</em>.”  Weiss rolls her eyes.  “Yang, you could punch a tank.  I’m pretty sure you can hold your own with one measly English grad student.”</p><p>“Easy for you to say,” Yang grumbles.  “You did <em> not </em> see her.”</p><p>Weiss eyes her for a long moment, mouth pressed into a thin line, and Yang squirms in her seat because she can see Weiss putting pieces together in her head and there’s no stopping her now, and--</p><p>“Oh, God, she was hot, wasn’t she?”</p><p>“Leave me <em> alone</em>, Weiss!”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She’s going to tell the TA not to write the paper.  She’s absolutely going to do it.  She has another shift on Thursday, and Oobleck has office hours then, too, which means the TA will be there too.  She’s going to go in there and tell her and--</p><p>“Weiss?”  </p><p>--be intercepted by Weiss.  In a building on the undergrad campus.  </p><p>“What are you--”</p><p>She silently offers Yang one hand, three fifties folded neatly in her palm.  Yang stares at her-- gaping might be the better word-- bag hanging dumbly from one hand, because surely Weiss isn’t here offering her $150 so she can go pay the hot mean girl for a paper she doesn’t need.</p><p>“So you have options,” Weiss says simply.  “It’s a weird situation and I don’t know what the best resolution is, but you should be able to figure it out without having the choice made for you because of money.”</p><p>“Weiss,” Yang starts.</p><p>“It’s not charity,” Weiss says firmly.  “If you don’t use it on this, donate it to a real charity, if it bothers you to keep it for yourself.”  She pushes the bills into Yang’s palm, folds her fingers around it, hand lingering for a long moment.</p><p>“Okay,” Yang says slowly, uncertainly, because it’s unsettled something behind her sternum that she’d buried years ago.  “Thank you.”</p><p>She pockets the money, for lack of anything better to do, and hauls her bag back up onto her shoulder, and Weiss pulls her books closer to her chest.  She clears her throat and turns halfway, looking around the building, as if inspecting it, eyebrows lifting.</p><p>“So this is Harvard,” she says, and Yang snorts.</p><p>“You’re literally a student here.”  She bumps her hip against Weiss’s, digs her keys to Port’s office out of her pocket.  </p><p>“Not for undergrad, clearly.”  Weiss rolls her eyes.  “Not that my illustrious parents ever forgave me.”</p><p>“Fuck ‘em,” Yang says cheerfully.  The door always sticks, the building traditional-- Harvard’s words-- and old-- her words-- and she shoves a shoulder into it to get it open.  “You want to come in?”</p><p>Weiss peers in, mouth turned down, but it’s her curious frown, the one she wears when she’s pulling information in and turning the pieces in her head, not the one that means she’s unhappy, and Yang goes through the motions of shrugging out of her jacket and unpacking her computer.</p><p>“I have to get to class,” Weiss says finally.  “I just-- didn’t want to mention this in front of Ruby, and didn’t have a chance to catch you before the gym.”</p><p>“You going to be home for dinner tonight?”  Yang leans against her desk, hands fisted into her pockets, Weiss’s cash still burning into her palm.  “I found a recipe for--”</p><p>She cuts off abruptly, because behind Weiss, out in the hallway, ambling by with what’s probably technically an undergrad but <em> surely </em> must, in fact, be a third grader, is the hot mean TA.  Yang’s mouth goes dry and if the heat on the back of her neck and the way Weiss’s eyebrows have skidded up to her hairline are anything to go by, she’s flushing bright red.  </p><p>“I take it that’s her?”</p><p>“How’d you guess,” Yang says, strangled.</p><p>Weiss sighs, eyes rolling skyward and then over to the clock on the wall, and then shoves her books into Yang’s hands.  “Give me the money.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The money,” Weiss repeats, and then rolls her eyes again and shoves her hand into Yang’s pocket.</p><p>“Hey there,” Yang says, alarmed, skin burning for a whole other reason.  “At least buy me dinner first.”</p><p>“You’re <em> making me </em>dinner tonight because it’s your turn to cook,” Weiss says with a huff.  She resurfaces with the cash.  “Wait here.”</p><p>“Wait for what?”  Yang stands there, stupid and flushed, hands full of law books that are significantly heavier than she’d expected, as Weiss marches out of the office and turns left after the hot mean TA.  “Weiss!” </p><p>She’s still standing there, gawping and red, books balanced in her palms-- because what else is she meant to do while waiting for Weiss to do god know what--an eternity later when Weiss returns and carefully closes the door behind her.  She takes her time turning around and Yang nearly drops her books, because Weiss’s hands are linked behind her back and her face is carefully blank.</p><p>“Weiss,” Yang says sharply.  “What did you--”</p><p>“I get it,” Weiss hurries out, and then flushes brilliantly, and Yang's known her since they were seventeen, has seen her have crushes and go on dates, has seen her have heart broken, has seen her sulk into a pint of Ben and Jerry's until two in the morning during finals week, but she's <em>never</em> seen Weiss burn this bright over someone before.  Yang's chest flips inside out and she discards the books just so she can fold her arms over her chest because it feels like something to do, something to keep herself in check over this thrill of uncertainty beating against the back of her sternum, and Weiss leans back against the door and does the same, sulkily.    </p><p>Yang raises an eyebrow, cool as you please, as if she isn't completely losing her mind.  “Meaning?”</p><p>Weiss doesn’t answer, uncharacteristically surly, and Yang clears her throat aggressively.  “Weiss!”  </p><p>“I-- commissioned a paper too,” she mumbles, and then clunks her head back against the door.</p><p>“Weiss!” Yang yelps out.  “That-- you don’t even-- you’re not a student--”</p><p>“Neither are you!”  Weiss smacks her head back against the door again and then breathes in deep, shoulders squaring up slowly.  “She’s-- I clearly get it.”</p><p>Her cheeks are still red and her eyes, normally a clear cloudless blue, are blazing dark in a way Yang’s never seen, and Yang’s chest aches and her fingers dig into her own arms.</p><p>“I,” she starts, and then stops, shakes her head, clears her throat.  “Have to work.  You have class.”</p><p>“Right,” Weiss says after a long moment.  She peels herself away from the door.  Measured strides carry her closer and Yang scrambles in what is surely a graceful manner out of her way so she can collect her books from the desk, take the same measured steps back to the door.  Yang shuffles papers on the desk, fiddles with her laptop, acts as if she’s busy because if she focuses on that she can absolutely pretend she’s not thinking about the hot mean TA and the tempting curve to her mouth, the burn in Weiss’s blue eyes, the two of them facing off and a fire crackling between them and what it would be like to be caught in the middle of it.</p><p>“See you at home?” Weiss has a hand on the doorknob before she speaks, and Yang’s head jerks up at her voice, because she always listens when Weiss speaks.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, and smiles, because some things are simple.  “I found that samosa recipe you were talking about the other day.”</p><p>Weiss smiles, and Yang settles, just for a moment.</p><p>By the time the door closes behind her, though, and the confusing flush comes rushing back ,and she crashes down into her chair with a groan.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Wednesday at 6:30, Yang normally has a shift at the gym before a study group.  She trades it with a coworker so she can leave a half hour early, because she may have inadvertently lied and pretend to be a cheating undergraduate student at a college she doesn’t attend, but she draws the line at failing to show up and pay for the paper she accidentally commissioned. </p><p>She paces outside the building, not at all suspiciously, as her watch ticks closer to 6:30.  The cash from Weiss burns hot in one pocket, her phone in the other with Weiss’s text notification-- <em> You can just pay and walk away if you’re not comfortable talking about it, don’t forget that </em>-- burning just as hot.  She glances at her watch as it hits 6:28 and gives up on waiting and stalks inside, sidling past Port’s office and his booming baritone as he waxes poetic to some poor captive audience or another, and carrying on towards Oobleck’s half-open door.</p><p>Her knuckles have nearly hit the doorjamb when she pauses, the sound of someone sniffling grinding her to a halt.</p><p>“It’s okay.”  The voice is quiet, calm, and then followed by the sound of someone blowing their nose.  Yang pulls her hand back, mouth turning down as she looks up and down the empty hallway uncertainly.  “You can rewrite the assignment, okay?  Oobleck hasn’t even seen it.”</p><p>Another sniffle, and then another blown nose.  </p><p>There’s a sigh, exasperated, quiet, and Yang looks around again, down to her heavy boots and wondering how quietly she can walk away.</p><p>“I failed a couple of papers my first semester in undergrad, too, you know.”</p><p>Yang blinks, suddenly recognizing the voice, even without a hard edge to it, and shakes her head.</p><p>“I had a teacher give me a chance to rewrite some essays that I’d screwed up, and I wound up making dean’s list.  You can, too, maybe.  There’s still time, okay?”</p><p>Another sniffle sounds, and then a watery <em> “Thank you,” </em> follows.  A chair scrapes and a bag rustles, and Yang, panicking, manages to leap a good six feet away without somehow making an egregious noise.  She leans an elbow against the wall and slaps a hand to the back  of her head to ruffle her hair, smiling wide and not at all weirdly at the gangly undergrad who steps out of the office with red eyes.  Yang flushes and waves with her free hand, because that’s not weird at <em> all </em>, and accepts that she can never step foot in the building again when the kid looks at her like she’s considering running back into the office and instead eventually skirts wide to the other side of the hallway to leave.</p><p>Yang’s shoulders slump and she lets out a heavy breath, and is immediately faced with flashing golden eyes staring appraisingly at her and then disappearing into the office.</p><p>“Hello!” she chirps out, waving cheerfully, because she’s two for two on being an absolute nutjob today, and is rewarded with an eyeroll and the TA disappearing back into the office.</p><p>“Close the door,” is all she gets when she steps inside, and she does, because even odds she’s either going to cry or, like, fall out of a chair with how her luck’s going, so the fewer witnesses, the better.</p><p>A cheap thumb drive is tossed across the desk.  She snatches it out of the air automatically, blinking down at it in her palm.  </p><p>“A minus,” the TA says, bored, leaning back in her chair.  “Port’s TA is lazy, and there’s no curve on the hundred-level course.”</p><p>Yang shakes her head, as if that’ll help make sense of what is, potentially, the dumbest situation she’s found herself in, up to and including the time she lost a bet with Weiss and wound up having to drunkenly sneak into the robotics lab and reprogram one of the dissertation projects to launch Skittles at the professor the next time it was turned on.</p><p>“You good to pay?”</p><p>She blinks again, shaking herself out of her reverie, and looks from the flash drive back to gold eyes and an annoyed frown, arms folded over her chest and a bored set to her shoulders as she stares Yang down.  </p><p>“I’m not a student,” Yang blurts out, because subtlety, sometimes, perhaps always, is not her strong suit.</p><p>“What?” Eyebrow furrow over bright golden eyes and, if possible, confusion is hotter on her than meanness, and Yang is smart, smart enough that she’s spent the entirety of her life surrounded mostly by people who are confused by the things she says, with few exceptions-- some, though too few, teachers; Ruby; Weiss-- and it’s never <em> appealing </em>.  But there’s something to this, the way her forehead creases but her eyes brighten, as if confusion is a starting point instead of an ending point, pieces to put together.</p><p>It is, Yang realizes abruptly, exactly the way Weiss looks at logical puzzles, and something surges behind her sternum.</p><p>“I mean,” Yang says hurriedly.  “I-- am.  Just not here.”</p><p>“Not here, as in not this college,” she says slowly.  She leans forward, chin propping in her hand, looking at Yang with interest for the first time, and it’s scalding, the way she’s taking her in, assessing her, measuring her up and, Yang’s fairly certain, finding her lacking.  “Or as in this university.”</p><p>“I, uh.”  Yang pulls in a deep breath and then lets out a groan.  “I’m in grad school at MIT.  I work part time for Port down the hall.  I was just here to drop off a book the other day.”</p><p>“Really,” she drawls.  “Why didn’t you just say that, then?”</p><p>“To be fair, you were <em> really </em> mean,” Yang says, flopping down into the chair on the other side of the desk.  “It caught me off guard.”</p><p>“I wasn’t <em> mean</em>,” she says, affronted.</p><p>Yang snorts, tosses the flash drive back to her.  “You totally were.  I could barely get a word in edgewise.  You talk to eighteen year old babies that way?  How many of them have cried?”</p><p>“I--” She looks down at the flash drive in her hand, and then sighs.  “In my defense, half of them are shitty rich white kids.  Harvard is--”</p><p>“A joke?” Yang offers, and gets a raised eyebrow in response.  She holds her hands up defensively.  “Not my words.  My friend’s in the law school, she’s the one who said it.</p><p>“Also,” she adds, grinning widely.  “You’re clearly here.”</p><p>“Don’t remind me.”  There’s a grimace, which is also attractive, somehow, and Yang isn’t sure what she’s doing at this point, but now that she doesn’t have nerves weighting her shoulders down this feels <em> fun</em>, and she has to leave soon if she wants to make it to her study group but also she really, desperately doesn’t want to.  </p><p>“So, what, you cheat them at their own game as a fuck you to the system?”</p><p>One shoulder lifts, graceful and lazy, in a shrug, and Yang stares blatantly at the way it moves under the loose drape of her shirt.  </p><p>“If they paid me more than shit, maybe I wouldn’t have to.”</p><p>“Yeah, I feel that.”  Yang stretches her arms back over her head, satisfied when it draws unabashed interest to her arms and shoulders, and pushes up to her feet reluctantly because she does have a study group she has to make it to.  “I work three jobs outside of my stipend just to make rent.”</p><p>She drags the folded fifties out of her pocket, a little worse for wear after the last week, and offers them.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“Hundred fifty, cash only, right?” Yang brandishes it again.</p><p>“You aren’t a student.  You don’t need the paper.”  The confusion is back, intoxicating and intelligent, whirring in the back of her eyes as she stares up at Yang.  “You literally just said you work three jobs to make rent.”</p><p>“You still wrote the paper, though.  I’m good for my word.”  She lays the money on the table.  “Please just--”</p><p>“How about a drink instead?”</p><p>It’s blurted out, the first unsteady thing she’s said the whole time Yang’s known her, and Yang pauses, still leaning over the desk, and raises an eyebrow.  </p><p>“Beg pardon?”</p><p>There’s a flush to her cheeks, barely visible against her dark skin, and Yang smiles, slow and sure, because now, finally, she knows what to do.  She drags her other hand around, leaning more square against the desk, and tilts her head to one side minutely.  </p><p>“Keep your money,” the TA says.  “And we can get a drink instead.  To square things up.”</p><p>“You don’t even know my name,” Yang says, fingers flexing against the desktop.  “I don’t even know <em> your </em>name.”</p><p>“Blake,” she mumbles after a moment.  “My name is Blake.”</p><p>“Nice to meet you, Blake,” Yang says with a smile.  “My name’s Yang.”  She offers a hand, and Blake takes it, palm warm and smooth, and Yang smiles. Study group can wait.</p><p>“I know somewhere we could go, if you’re interested.”  </p><p>And just like that, the last domino slots into place.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em> Somewhere </em> may or may not be her apartment, but they have an alcohol selection better than most bars thanks to Weiss, who will certainly be there, and Wednesdays for Ruby keep her in the lab until well past midnight every week.  Yang unlocks the door with a flourish and lets Blake through first.</p><p>“This is your apartment,” Blake says, a statement instead of a question, quiet and calm.  “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”</p><p>“Would I tell you if I was?” Yang unties her boots and shoves them away, steps aside to let Blake toes out of her shoes as well, and flashes a winning smile and turns to yell into the apartment.  “Honey, I’m home!”</p><p>There’s a scoff from deeper in the apartment, familiar and warm, and Yang grins and Blake and turns just in time for Weiss to round the corner from her room, textbook in one hand and drink in the other hand, and she chokes on her whiskey immediately.</p><p>“What the--”</p><p>“Yang--”</p><p>“So!” Yang slaps her hands together, looking for Blake to Weiss and smiling, hopefully wide enough that Weiss won’t murder her.  Blake, for her part, looks only mildly perplexed, but to be fair, she hasn’t known Blake for too long, so mild confusion could mean murder for her.  “Weiss, this is Blake.  Blake, this is Weiss.  I know <em> technically </em> you two have already met, but--”</p><p>“Yang, can I speak with you, please?” Weiss says sharply, book snapping shut.  “Privately?”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Blake says, hands in the pockets of her jacket.  “You’re also not an undergrad.”</p><p>“Yang,” Weiss says again.</p><p>“Weiss is in law school,” Yang says.  She takes the textbook out of Weiss’s hands, sets it on the counter gently.  “I already explained what happened.  We just-- it’s a misunderstanding, and it’s funny, and now we can drink about it, okay?”</p><p>Weiss is glaring at her, and this close there’s an edge to it that’s more anxious and less anger, and Yang puts herself between Weiss and Blake, settles her hands on Weiss’s shoulders.</p><p>“She’s cool,” she says softly, soft enough that Blake can’t hear.  “I promise, okay?”</p><p>Weiss’s shoulders relax under her hands, eyes still snapping, but she finally nods.  “Fine.”</p><p>“Awesome,” Yang says, loud enough for Blake to hear, and slaps a kiss against Weiss’s forehead and slings an arm around her shoulders as she steers her into the living room, winking over her shoulder at Blake.  “Blake, what’s your poison?  We have literally everything.  You’re an English PhD, so I assume you drink the worst kind of whiskey.”</p><p>Behind her, Blake scoffs but smiles and follows, relaxed and casual.  Under her arm, Weiss curls into her side, and Yang settles onto the couch with Weiss at one side and Blake at the other, drinks in hand.  Surely this will be a good evening.</p><p>Instead, three hours later, she’s playing strip poker with Blake-- who, apparently, can redefine <em> impassive </em> , even halfway into a bottle of scotch-- and Weiss-- who Yang technically learned to never play card <em>or </em> drinking games with five years ago, and losing miserably.  She’s down to her underwear and laying on her stomach on the floor, glaring at Blake, who’s lost her socks and shirt and seems unconcerned with it, and Weiss, who’s only lost one sock.</p><p>“This is unfair,” Yang mutters.</p><p>“It was your idea,” Weiss informs her.  </p><p>“And you let me suggest it!”  Yang picks up a discarded sock and flings it at her.  “You know better than to let me suggest anything when I’m drunk!”</p><p>“Consider it payback,” Weiss says mildly.</p><p>Blake, silent, leans past Weiss to steal Yang’s drink; Weiss pulls her cards back out of Blake’s eyeline with a sniff but doesn’t lean away to give Blake any space; Yang’s momentarily distracted from her own complete asskicking by the way Blake's planted one hand by Weiss's hip for balance and is practically laying in her lap, the way she slides back along Weiss's front on her way back to sitting, and raises an eyebrow over the whiskey glass at her.</p><p>“Payback for what?” Yang says, belatedly, finally looking back over to Weiss.</p><p>“For not giving me advanced warning,” Weiss says, huffing.</p><p>“Oh, please,” Yang snorts.  “As if you’re not enjoying yourself.”</p><p>Weiss flushes delicately, and Yang’s losing miserably at cards but she’ll take that one as a win.  And so will Blake, apparently, if the way her eyes darken and she's still leaning on her hand by Weiss's hip is anything to go by.  </p><p>There’s a charge to the air, something Yang can’t quiet put a name to yet in her semidrunk state, but it’s something in the way Blake’s eyes are dark and Weiss’s are darker, they way they’re closer together than they should be for playing poker and both closer still to Yang.  They’d stopped refilling their drinks an hour ago, all three of them, accidentally or otherwise, instead passing the last half-full glass between them, and the game had slowed to almost nothing as the night carried on.  There’s something tangling and heavy pulsing between them, something--</p><p>A key scrapes into the lock in the front door.</p><p>“Fuck,” Yang grinds out.</p><p>“What--” Blake’s head swivels over.</p><p>“Sister,” Yang hisses.  She leaps to her feet, strip poker forgotten and glares when Blake and Weiss both stare at her, and yanks them both up and shoves them into the closest door she can find, which happens to be a coat closet, and dives in after them.</p><p>“We have <em> rooms </em>, Yang!” Weiss hisses, glaring up at her in the dim light.  “Why--”</p><p>Yang slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes locked on her, and holds a finger to her lips.  Because yes, she panicked, maybe, but they’re here now and she just needs Ruby to go to bed and then they can--</p><p>Well.</p><p>This is not the position she wants to be in.  Crammed into her own coat closet, mostly naked, Blake plastered between the wall and her back, one arm pressed against the wall in front of her to keep herself from crushing Weiss against her front.  Weiss’s eyes are wide and unblinking, breaths coming heavy as she very carefully looks only up at Yang’s eyes, and Yang, who’s seen the full force of Weiss Schnee’s glare make grown men cry, can’t look away.</p><p>Outside, music turns onto the speakers, Ruby’s favored metal, and it’s thankfully loud enough to let out the groan from Weiss.</p><p>“Why are we in the closet?” Blake whispers, voice brushing over the skin on Yang’s shoulder, and she shudders, and in front of her, Weiss’s eyes go wide and then narrow.</p><p>“That’s my sister,” Yang whispers back.  </p><p>“Can’t we just--”</p><p>“I am <em> naked </em>, Blake,” Yang says urgently.</p><p>“Trust me, I noticed,” Blake says, and a shiver rips down Yang’s spine that she can’t suppress, and suddenly there are hands at her waist, fingers warm on her skin.  Weiss’s jaw sets under Yang’s hand, and her fingers wrap around Yang’s wrist, pull her hand away.</p><p>“Can’t you two keep it in your damn pants until I’m not here?” she hisses out, and something cold flashes through Yang’s stomach, Blake’s hands suddenly looser at her hips.</p><p>“Weiss,” Yang says thickly, uncertain, and she doesn’t know how to verbalize the way her skin had hummed at the burn in Weiss’s eyes the first time she met Blake, the way she’d imagined the two of them going toe to toe and wanted nothing more than to be caught between them.  She’s not drunk, not anymore, but the words don’t string together in her head, but Blake’s lips have landed idly against her shoulderblade and her hands have reached further forward and found the sharp edges of Weiss's hipbones.  There's a sharp exhale from Weiss and her hands land at Yang's waist and Yang, pressed between them, presses her hands to Weiss’s cheeks and pulls her up on to her toes to kiss her.</p><p>A soft sound escapes from Weiss and it’s enough, and Yang drags her hands up into her hair, lets Blake do the rest of the work of pulling her closer until Yang’s fully sandwiched between the two of them, exactly where she’d wanted to be since she’d seen Weiss’s eyes burning dark after meeting Blake, Blake’s lips at her spine and Weiss’s on her throat, fingernails dragging down her back and--</p><p>--the door opens and Yang finds herself blinking into bright light and staring at her sister’s absolutely scandalized face right before the door slams shut again and a shriek follows it.</p><p>Dead silence falls in the closet.</p><p>“Uh oh,” Blake murmurs, and then laughs quietly, and her forehead falls against Yang’s back.  Yang stares wide-eyed down at Weiss, hands still in her hair, because Weiss could bolt, Weiss could freeze, Weiss could do a thousand things that all end in Yang losing her now, but instead she sighs and presses a hand over Yang’s collarbone.</p><p>“That went well,” she mutters.  She taps at Yang’s shoulder.  “Come on, champ.  Let’s go.”</p><p>“Nuh uh,” Yang says, shaking her head.  “Nope.  I’m never leaving this closet.”</p><p>“Yang,” Weiss sighs out.  “You came out of the closet when you were thirteen.  Is this really how--”</p><p>Blake snorts and Yang lets out an indignant whine, but it peters off into a laugh, and then a sigh, and she tilts her forehead down against Weiss’s.  </p><p>“I need clothes first,” she grumbles.  “I cannot have this conversation with Ruby naked.”</p><p>“What conversation exactly is that?” Blake drawls out.  Her arms curl around Yang’s stomach, hands pressing lazy and easy, and she pushes up on her toes until she can prop her chin on Yang’s shoulder, and Yang sighs, tilts her head against Blake's, covers the hands on her stomach with one of her own.  Weiss looks up at the both of them, humming noncommittally.</p><p>“Not sure yet.”  Her head tilts to one side, but one hand pulls free from Yang and presses against Blake’s cheek, thumb brushing along her mouth and drawing a shudder down her spine that Yang feels echoed in her own.  “But there’s one to be had.”</p><p>“Can I just <em> please </em>put on a shirt first?” Yang says, a split second away from stomping a foot.</p><p>“Yes, please put on clothes!” Ruby bellows from outside.  “And then pay for all of my therapy forever!”</p><p>It draws a laugh out of all of them, too big and too bright for a dark coat closet, and it started with a lease and ended with her sandwiched mostly-naked between Blake and Weiss while they scandalized Ruby, but as far as a series of mistakes go, worse things could happen.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>